by Lynne Graham
‘He believes that we should have what he calls a website,’ he added, helping himself to cheese. ‘You approve, mademoiselle?’
She said quickly, ‘I think it’s a wonderful idea.’ As well as long overdue, she thought grimly, wondering how Mademoiselle Chaloux could have allowed matters to slip in this way.
‘Ah, but I have not finished,’ he said, and turned to Andre. ‘Mon fils, I have decided that this year we shall again celebrate the birthday of Baron Emile.’
Andre’s brows lifted. ‘Is it not a little late for that? We have less than a month to prepare.’
The Baron waved a hand. ‘I have spoken with Gaston and Clothilde and they agree with me that his memory has been neglected for too long, and that all will go well.’ He smiled at Ginny. ‘Mademoiselle Mason will see the Château Terauze en fête and her presence will add grace to an already happy occasion.
‘Tomorrow, I shall make a list of guests to be invited,’ the Baron went on. ‘And we must order cards to be printed. I remember my dear one always used the same company.’ He nodded. ‘I shall look in my desk for the name,’ he announced and went off to do so, taking his coffee with him.
When they were alone, Andre said quietly, ‘You know what I am going to ask, Virginie. I have not seen him so animated for a long time, and hope you can find it in your heart to indulge him by staying until the party.’ He paused. ‘And, although this may be no incentive, you will also have my gratitude.’
Gratitude, she thought. Will that stop me feeling as if I’m dying inside?
She stared down at the table. ‘Then it seems I have little choice.’
She did not hear him leave the room, and it was only when she eventually looked up that she realised she was alone.
* * *
Only one more day, Ginny told herself as she walked back from the village. Then the most difficult three weeks of her life would be over and done with.
She paused to transfer Madame’s canvas bag from one hand to the other. She had only bought a few vegetables, yet somehow it seemed infinitely heavier than usual.
Maybe she was just tired, she thought. She couldn’t pretend she’d been sleeping well. The inner tensions of continuing to share a roof with Andre had seen to that.
Not that she encountered him that much, apart from mealtimes, and he’d invariably breakfasted before she got downstairs. His days were spent pruning the precious vines, while after dinner, more often than not, he would excuse himself courteously and disappear down to La Petite Maison to spend the evening, drinking and playing cards with Jules, or so Madame Rameau intimated with raised brows and pursed lips.
And, wherever he was, he was invariably accompanied by Barney, who had wholeheartedly transferred his devotion from the father to the son.
But if Andre thought he was being considerate by keeping out of her way, he could not be more wrong, thought Ginny, stifling a sigh. She found herself constantly on tenterhooks, awaiting his return. Feeling her heart lift as the sudden buzz in the house heralded his return. Longing to look at him and see him drop the formal mask he now used in his dealings with her and smile.
She could cope in the daytime, becoming immersed in preparations for the party, from sending out the invitations—and being astounded at the acceptance rate—to even more practical matters such as helping to wash by hand the array of exquisite eighteenth-century porcelain plates and dishes and amazing sets of crystal which Gaston had reverently produced from a cupboard, to cleaning the elaborate silver candelabra which would stand down the centre of the long table in the hall.
And in the past twenty-four hours, she’d become Madame’s kitchen assistant, helping prepare the fragrant hams, joints of beef, turkeys and game to be consumed by the guests.
Moreover, Madame’s brother-in-law, a keen fisherman, had promised to supply enough perch and pike for a massive and traditional fish stew.
‘And I shall show you, mon enfant, how to make jambon persille,’ Madame promised, referring with a satisfied nod to the famous Burgundian dish, resembling a mosaic of ham, shallots, garlic, wine and parsley.
The Baron, who had overheard, was amused. ‘Clothilde guards her recipes with care, mademoiselle. You are honoured. Clearly you have the makings of a serious cook.’
Who will probably be living out of a microwave in the months to come, Ginny thought, murmuring an appropriate response.
And who was most certainly not the flavour of the month in another quarter.
* * *
Monique Chaloux’s face had turned to stone when she’d arrived to find a computer engineer replacing the current system with a panoply of new hardware and software, and she had protested vigorously than it was an unnecessary expense, shooting a look at Ginny that spoke daggers.
But the Baron, having taken delivery of the latest thing in laptops for his personal use, was bullish about his decision, telling her that the real expense would be to lag behind their competitors. Adding blandly, to Ginny’s horror, that if Monique had problems using the software, she could always ask Mademoiselle Mason for her assistance, as he intended to do.
‘But that is hardly fair,’ Mademoiselle had said smoothly. ‘To intrude on what remains of her time with us with such mundane matters.’
‘On the contrary,’ Ginny returned quietly. ‘Monsieur le Baron knows I am happy to help. In this small way, to repay the kindness I’ve been shown here.’
And tried to pretend she had not seen Andre’s ironic glance.
She had not intended to be at the party for all kinds of reasons, one being that she had no suitable outfit, and had planned to invent some illness, minor but enough to confine her to her room, on the day itself.
But Madame Rameau had removed one major obstacle by demanding to know what she intended to wear during one of their shopping expeditions, dismissing her faltering reply, and conducting her forthwith to a small shop in a side street, where, Ginny noticed with alarm, the window held just one silk blouse in an exquisite mélange of rainbow colours.
Inside, the proprietress, stunningly chic in grey, had looked her over, nodded and produced a whole armful of evening wear for her to try, in spite of Ginny’s uneasy conviction that the price of anything on offer would easily exceed her modest resources.
There were two dresses, however, that immediately attracted her, a full length, long-sleeved ivory silk in Empire style, which she put aside with a pang of regret as altogether too bridal, and a gorgeous black taffeta, with a full skirt reaching just below the knee and a deep square neck against which her skin seemed to glow like pearl.
She couldn’t see a price label anywhere, but when she asked diffidently about the cost, she found to her astonishment that it was half what she’d have expected, and therefore —just—affordable, especially as she already possessed an almost new pair of high-heeled black shoes.
Within minutes, the transaction was done and she was watching the taffeta dress being swathed in tissue paper and laid reverently in a blue and silver striped box tied up with ribbons.
As she carried it through the market, she’d felt momentarily like Cinderella, a dream soon shattered by the sound of Madame scolding a stallholder over the price of leeks.
A much needed reality check, she thought ruefully now, as she climbed the final slope to the gates of the château, and one that she’d returned to over and over again in the days which followed.
She went in the back door and into the kitchen, where Jules was standing talking to his aunt. And just beyond them, lying on the kitchen table, Ginny saw two rabbits.
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. Ça va?’ Jules greeted her cheerfully. He gestured at the rabbits. ‘Tonight Tante Clothilde will cook them for you in her special mustard sauce.’ He kissed his fingertips. ‘Formidable.’
Ginny stared at the rabbits, feeling curiously hollow as she unfastened her co
at.
Fur, she thought. Ears and tails. That would have to be removed.
She said hoarsely, ‘Where did they come from?’
‘I shot them early this morning.’ He sounded surprised. ‘The noise of my gun did not disturb you?’
Mutely, Ginny shook her head, only to discover that was a serious mistake. Gagging suddenly, she dropped the bag of vegetables and ran to the scullery sink, where she was swiftly and unpleasantly sick.
As she straightened, the world still reeling around her, she was given a drink of water, then, firmly supported by Madame’s sheltering arm, found herself guided out of the kitchen to the petit salon, where she was deposited on the sofa in front of the fire.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ginny whispered. ‘It—it was seeing those rabbits. I’m not usually so squeamish.’
Madame nodded. ‘But everything changes when one is enceinte, mon enfant.’ She gave Ginny a reassuring smile. ‘And for tonight’s dinner, I shall roast a chicken very simply.’
‘Enceinte,’ Ginny repeated numbly. ‘You mean...’
‘That you are to have a child, petite.’
‘No—you must be mistaken.’ You have to be...
Madame shook her head. ‘I knew from the first. And Monsieur Andre will tell you that I am never wrong.’
Ginny stared up at her. ‘You told him too?’
‘That he was to be a father? Most certainly. It is important news for a man.’ She patted Ginny on the shoulder. ‘And another generation for the Château Terauze. It will bring great happiness.’
Happiness, thought Ginny when Madame had bustled off and she was alone. What possible happiness can come from being married to a man out of his sense of duty? And when there’s someone more suitable waiting in the wings?
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the cushions. Falling in love with someone, knowing you wanted to spend your life making him happy should be a wonderful thing. Not like the wretchedness and desperation that were threatening to overwhelm her, but which must for ever remain her secret.
At least, she whispered silently, until I’m long gone from here, which must—must be soon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHE HAD BRACED HERSELF for Andre’s arrival, but when he walked into the room and she saw the bleakness of his expression, her heart felt wrenched.
She said huskily, ‘I’m sorry.’
And it was true. It was her misguided attempt to intervene in whatever was going on between Cilla and himself that had triggered this disaster. Instead, she should have closed her eyes and kept her distance.
Because she’d known from the start—probably from the moment she saw him—the danger she was in.
But she’d told herself that her feelings were down to dislike and resentment, too inexperienced to recognise the tug of sexual thrall for what it was. Or to realise that it was jealousy as well as anger that had taken her to him that day. And love that had brought her here.
He said abruptly, ‘I too regret—everything.’ He shook his head. ‘I have been hoping, praying that for once Clothilde might be wrong.’
She winced inwardly. ‘But it doesn’t change anything,’ she said quickly. ‘I shall still go back to England.’
His mouth hardened. ‘Au contraire. Tomorrow at the party I shall announce our engagement, and we will be married as soon as the legal formalities are complete.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t—you can’t mean that.’
‘You forget, Virginie.’ His voice was harsh. ‘I know what my father suffered, knowing his only child was being raised in another country by another man, and the extreme it drove him to. You think I will allow that to happen to me? That I would be content to provide financial support and the occasional visit?’ He drew a sharp breath. ‘Never in this world.’
‘But you don’t understand...’
‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘It is you, ma belle, who cannot comprehend how I would feel if our child was sick or in an accident and I could not be with you at the bedside. Or the pain of not seeing that first step—hearing that first word.’
He paused. ‘And whatever you may believe, there is still a stigma attached to a child born outside marriage. Bastard is an ugly word which some people do not hesitate to use. Almost from the moment she arrived back in Terauze, Maman had the support and protection of Papa Bertrand, but even so, she was not invulnerable.’
He added quietly, ‘And nor was I.’
Ginny was silent, remembering from her own youth how cruel children could be, in her case, if you did not have the trendiest clothes, or if they found your school meals were subsidised. Imagining the kind of jibes that would have been levelled at the man looking at her so steadily.
He said, ‘But who will defend you, Virginie? Your mother? I do not think so.’
Nor did she, all her attempts at making contact over the past weeks having totally failed, but, just the same, she lifted her chin defiantly. ‘You’re determined to think the worst of her.’
Andre shrugged. ‘I wish you to face reality. And, in doing so, to accept the shelter of marriage for yourself and our baby. We should not forget that the child could be the future heir to Terauze.’
But marriage is the reality I can’t bear to face, Ginny thought wildly.
Living with you, sleeping with you, needing you. And, when you’re not with me, wondering where you are and who you’re with.
How can I do that? How can I—when the shelter you offer will only make me more vulnerable?
Her voice shook a little. ‘Wouldn’t it be better for this heir to be born in a marriage of love rather than convenience?’
‘Peut-être,’ he said. ‘In an ideal world. But we must deal with the situation as it is.’
He walked over to the sofa and knelt, taking her hand. ‘Virginie, I beg you honour me by becoming my wife.’ He added with constraint, ‘I promise I will try to make you happy.’
At the expense of someone else’s sorrow...
She thought it, but did not say it. She looked at the tanned fingers enclosing her own, and nodded reluctantly.
‘Then I suppose—yes.’ She released her hand from his clasp. ‘I—I don’t know how to fight you any more, Andre.’
He smiled at her and rose. ‘Vraiment? Then you will make the perfect wife, ma mie. Now I shall tell Papa Bertrand the good news.’
‘All of it?’ she asked apprehensively.
He shrugged again. ‘Pourquoi pas?’ he countered. ‘If he has not guessed already.’
He bent and, realising he intended to kiss her and unable to trust herself not to respond, she shrank back against the cushions.
He straightened, the firm mouth twisting in derision. ‘Keep your distance by day, if you wish, chérie. But the nights will bring their own compensations.’ He walked to the door and turned. ‘For us both,’ he added softly. ‘As I am sure you remember.’
And left her staring after him, her heart beating wildly.
* * *
The black taffeta, Ginny decided critically, surveying herself in the mirror, looked almost better tonight than it had done in the shop, which was gratifying when this might be the only occasion she’d be able to wear it. And her high-heeled court shoes and sheer black tights somehow made her slim legs look endless.
It was a long time since she’d been to a big party and even longer since she’d possessed a dress quite as flattering and—well, sexy as this one, and, in spite of her very real concerns about the future, she felt a flutter of excitement inside her.
I’ve scrubbed up pretty well, she thought, reverting to self-mockery. Tonight I might even have given Cilla a run for her money.
She’d phoned both Rosina and her sister the previous day, telling them that she was to be married, but, again, her messages went straight to voicemail,
and there had been no call-back. Yet surely they couldn’t still be in the Seychelles.
It’s as if I’ve ceased to exist for them, she acknowledged with a faint sigh as she went downstairs.
The table in the centre of the hall was now laden with food and lit by candelabra. In a corner, a group of local musicians were quietly tuning up, and two girls from the village, resplendent in brief dark skirts with crisp white shirts and aprons were waiting to serve drinks.
Gaston, checking that all was ready, gave her his warm, shy smile and told her that the Baron and Monsieur Andre were in the salon.
The door was ajar and as Ginny paused to smooth her skirt and take a deep breath, she heard the Baron say, ‘You expect me to be pleased? To accept this girl as your wife, when I hoped that for you, mon fils, it would be a very different marriage.’
And Andre’s reply, ‘Papa, it is the best I can hope for. And I have only myself to blame.’
For one numb, stricken moment, Ginny stood motionless. Her overwhelming temptation was to retreat to her room, pack her things and disappear into the night.
But that would be the coward’s way out, as well as disrupting an important night for the Château Terauze, when Andre went in search of her, as he undoubtedly would.
Besides, she told herself, she already knew and accepted how things were and it would be sheer hypocrisy to pretend otherwise and throw any kind of wobbly, so she pushed the door wide and walked in, her head held high and her smile firmly pinned in place.
They both turned to look at her, but the Baron was the first to speak. ‘Ravissante,’ he declared, forcing a smile. ‘Is that not so, Andre?’
There was the briefest silence, and she saw Andre’s mouth twist almost wryly. He said quietly, ‘Tu as raison, mon père. You are—very lovely, Virginie.’
She murmured an awkward word of thanks and turned away, feeling the colour rise in her face.
